Forensic Science: Crime on File #12 The Murdered Hostess
“Cheers!” Bill Tawson and Sara Hull raised their mugs of hot buttered rum as their host lifted his own mug to his lips. “Awfully glad you stopped by with the lady, Bill – nice to see an old friend the night before taking off on a vacation.” Zeke Blalock’s face looked ruddy in the light from the fireplace.
“I think we’re imposing on you,” Sara said. “I’d like to sit here in front of this open fire for hours, but you need to go up there and help your wife with the packing. Where did you say you were going?”
“Argentina,” Zeke answered. “Listen, Agnes will be furious if I let you two get away without telling her you dropped in, packing or no packing. Let me run up and fetch her down.” He set down his mug and bounded up the stairs. A moment later, they heard a roar, as if Zeke were in pain. Rushing up, they met him in the second-floor hall, his face contorted, his eyes wild.
“She’s been killed! She’s dead! My Agnes – down there, in our bedroom! I went in and she was slumped over the suitcase with a knife sticking out of her back! The window was open, the room was icy cold –” Bill and Sara were already on their way to the bedroom, where the scene was just as Zeke described it. Agnes had fallen across the case she was packing, her hands clinging to a heavy tweed suit, half in and half out of the suitcase. On the bed lay a plaid wool shirt and a pair of knitted socks, apparently waiting their turn to be packed.
“He must have broken in while we were down there toasting – the trip –” Zeke’s voice wavered. Bill went to the window. “Too bad there’s no snow,” he said. “There’d be footprints. Look, I’d better make a call. The phone’s in the hall, isn’t it?” Zeke nodded, and Sara followed Bill out of the room.
“Oh, Bill, and he’s a friend of yours,” she said sadly. “He must have done it before we dropped in – we stopped him from escaping.”
The Murdered Hostess
“Cheers!” Bill Tawson and Sara Hull raised their mugs of hot buttered rum as their host lifted his own mug to his lips. “Awfully glad you stopped by with the lady, Bill – nice to see an old friend the night before taking off on a vacation.” Zeke Blalock’s face looked ruddy in the light from the fireplace.
“I think we’re imposing on you,” Sara said. “I’d like to sit here in front of this open fire for hours, but you need to go up there and help your wife with the packing. Where did you say you were going?”
“Argentina,” Zeke answered. “Listen, Agnes will be furious if I let you two get away without telling her you dropped in, packing or no packing. Let me run up and fetch her down.” He set down his mug and bounded up the stairs. A moment later, they heard a roar, as if Zeke were in pain. Rushing up, they met him in the second-floor hall, his face contorted, his eyes wild.
“She’s been killed! She’s dead! My Agnes – down there, in our bedroom! I went in and she was slumped over the suitcase with a knife sticking out of her back! The window was open, the room was icy cold –” Bill and Sara were already on their way to the bedroom, where the scene was just as Zeke described it. Agnes had fallen across the case she was packing, her hands clinging to a heavy tweed suit, half in and half out of the suitcase. On the bed lay a plaid wool shirt and a pair of knitted socks, apparently waiting their turn to be packed.
“He must have broken in while we were down there toasting – the trip –” Zeke’s voice wavered. Bill went to the window. “Too bad there’s no snow,” he said. “There’d be footprints. Look, I’d better make a call. The phone’s in the hall, isn’t it?” Zeke nodded, and Sara followed Bill out of the room.
“Oh, Bill, and he’s a friend of yours,” she said sadly. “He must have done it before we dropped in – we stopped him from escaping.”